


If I wanted you less (I might be able to talk about it more)

by Nocturnememory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little bit of sexism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, But more like enemies to enemies with benefits to lovers, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Gender Changes, Gender Issues, Just saying that now, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Multi, Not set in the regency period, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Still have magic though, Tom is still not a nice person, but not pride and prejudice levels of slow burn, marriages and coutships, no pregnancies though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnememory/pseuds/Nocturnememory
Summary: It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a rising Dark Lord in want of a good country must also be in want of... well,everything.or,Harrie James Potter has no need of a city-boy with deep pocketsora lord who thinks he's more charming than he actually is.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 62
Kudos: 325





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously inspired by Pride and Prejudice, but outside of this first chapter it will diverge a lot from the book/movie. Though you'll definitely see similar themes and probably notice that our dear wolfstar are very much our Jane/Bingley for this story.  
Don't expect a really long slow burn as the relationship between Tom and Harrie will be complicated and...intense. Not full of longing stares and UST, or at least, not for long. This pairing to me, is better served messy and complicated, not romantic and sweet. So that's where this will be going, fyi :)
> 
> Also, as it will become clear, this is very, very AU and a lot of characters are not their canon ages. The magical world is quite different as well, due to plot reasons, and more will be revealed as the story progresses. 
> 
> I will be indicating anything that comes from the movie/book, because I think that's important to do when writing fusion fics. This first chapter echoes a lot of the first meeting of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy in the movie.
> 
> Title is a slightly altered quote from Austen's Emma.

* * *

one

* * *

If it were a day like any other, Harrie James Potter would be far more inclined to move, but, as it was, it was not such a day like any other at all.

After the excitement around the breakfast table that morning, Harrie feels far more inclined to continue her avoidance of all things proper and _expected_, and instead baste her skin in sunshine and enjoy the unseasonably hot spring weather.

(Were it a day like any other, she would probably be doing much the same, but her point stands, that this day was not quite like the rest.)

With her toes skimming the water and her trousers rolled and folded over her calves, Harrie lazes on her broom in an ungainly, boneless slump, trailing her hand along the water surface and enjoying the cool of it on her heated skin.

If it were a day like any other, Molly Weasley would not have cared much for her choice of clothes, for if it were like any other day, Harrie’s penchant for trousers would be nothing more than a small fond frown and no matter at all.

But, as it happens to be quite _unlike_ a normal day, Molly has taken grave grievance with the fact that of her two daughters, both are far more inclined to the ways of boys than the feminine manners that should be impressed upon them from cradle to marriage bed to…whatever end one met afterwards. For in Molly’s mind is no greater triumph than to be wed and married and familied.

(If such a thing as this were meant for Harrie, Harrie thinks she would be far more inclined to it, rather than be so… uninterested in it.)

Which is not to say she has any distaste for those that seek it, but simply that, if she had to choose between a gold ring and chasing the gold sky at dawn, she would always chase the sun.

(If she were Icarus, she thinks she would not even mind the burn.)

So it comes, as it is, to a day of unseasonably warm weather in late March, in which trousers are rolled towards the knee and skirts are abandoned for lighter fabrics and the ever fond Molly Weasley has, in her words, _lost more hairs to grey this morning than ever before in my life, _that Harrie finds herself fleeing her home and seeking solace in sun and sky away from the news that Gaunt Manor had been opened for the first time in more years than Harrie has been alive for.

Ginny, she knows, is not far off either, taking off in a fit of eye-rolling irritation at the voice of her mother chasing them out of the house, _it is a thing to consider, girls that your father and I will not be around forever—_

Guilt sits, a little bubble beneath her belly button, for the truth of the matter is that each year that passes digs another fine wrinkle upon the brows of the parents that raised her. For the truth of it is, that both she and Ginny are aware that expectations are set for certain reasons, and marriage within Magical Britain is of the greatest importance. And perhaps, more so than that, for Molly Weasley loves her children, but is well aware that in a patchwork family such as theirs, a marriage of _means_ is nearly as important as a marriage of _affection_.

_It is no simple matter,_ she’s told them before when they were less proper young things than little, wild beasts being brought together around an old wood dinner table, _you’ll understand when you’re older, that there are things we wish we could give you but find ourselves unable._

So, it is true then, that they all feel a small sense of obligation to shed the wildness of love and family that comes with being raised a patchwork family in a patchwork house on a small bit of patchwork land that’s run more on love and dedication than gold and circumstance.

It can’t be all bad, after all, Harrie reasons, her fingers skimming a lily pad, as Bill has already wandered away from the Burrow and into the marriage bed of London’s most beautiful and eligible bachelorette, and seems, for all purposes, quite happy if the ring on Fleur’s hand is any indication.

(And while Charlie seems more at ease in the dragon covered hillside of Romania, he too seems to have found his own way outside of the heart of the Burrow.)

“Harrie!”

Harrie’s foot splashes into the water as she rights herself on her broom. Sitting up, she squints towards the shore, where Remus lazes in the shadow of an old oak tree that had seen more than one adventure and many more than one scraped knee.

She tilts her broom back towards the shore, gliding towards land before hopping off right next to Remus and sinking down into the grass beside him.

“You beckoned?” she teases, enjoying the cool shade and the cool grass on her wet toes.

“It’s nearly midday,” he says, his amber eyes meeting hers, moving away from his book to focus on her. “We’re supposed to be heading into town to get fabric.”

Harrie drops her head back against the tree, “Yes, I remember.”

“You don’t seem overly excited by the news,” he leads, a little curious tilt to the question.

“Are you surprised?” Harrie asks, stretching out beside him, near enough to feel the warmth of him, near enough she can poke her damp toe into his grass-stained ones.

“Just because Molly’s excited by it all doesn’t mean this is some… last stay before an execution. Maybe the residents of Gaunt Manor are all quite terrible people and marriage will be the last thing on her mind once she meets them.”

Harrie nods, looking up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the shades of green and yellow, the sun high and bright and pushing through the canopy.

“She makes it sound like it’s some sort of… well, like we’re cattle, being marked for sale.”

“Molly says a lot of things, Harrie,” Remus sighs, and she hears his book thud against the soft earth. “She doesn’t mean half of it. I think she just worries what will happen if anything were to happen to her or Arthur.”

“We’d be fine,” Harrie frowns, watching a beam of light shift as a lazy breeze shifts the leaves. “We would still have each other.”

“But no Burrow, you know that Arthur doesn’t own the land, remember, that it belongs to some cousin—”

“If your goal was to comfort me, you’ve failed spectacularly,” Harrie drawls, digging her toe into his calf.

Remus gives a choked laugh, pulling his leg away from her. “I didn’t have any intentions, really, just stating facts.”

It goes quiet between them, Harrie watches the canopy, almost wishing she _was_ in a skirt so she could bare more of her legs to the breeze.

“With Percy already off to work at the Ministry, and Fred and George being more of mind to business, she’s got little to focus her worry on than us.”

“The Problem Children,” Harrie smiles, turning to look the boy beside her.

Remus grins, his canines too sharp to miss. “The werewolf and the daughter who likes to dress like a boy.”

“You try living your life in a blasted skirt and see how you like it. Molly would disown me if I took to the skies and flashed half of the countryside while in a skirt.”

“Perhaps you could catch yourself a husband that way,” he teases.

Harrie elbows him, “If I wanted one, it would not be hard, men are daft on the best of days.”

“I feel as if I should take offence to that statement.”

“Oh, Moony, you are only daft every other day.”

* * *

Were one to consider the landscape of Ottery Saint Catchpole it would be said that the best description would be _green._

Followed swiftly by, _I hope you like farmers._

Or farmers’ daughters.

Or farmers’ sons.

(Depending on one’s inclinations.)

So, it would be, for a man such as he is, a strange place to find his ancestral home located. Just outside the borders of Ottery Saint Catchpole, on the top of a slowly rising hillside, surrounded by forests and farmland, Gaunt Manor in all its dilapidated glory.

It is perhaps why it took him so long to consider making use of it, being so far out of the realm of influence and society.

He was told to hire professional interior charm-castors, property-warding specialists, and of course, home-charm decorators, but, as he is not only a man of a certain…reputation, he is also a man who trusts very few.

(Whether that’s a lack of trust in ability, skill, or a certain amount of paranoid self-preservation, he isn’t sure… though he thinks it might be all three.)

When it came to settling into the role that his name demands, taking up the proper mantle, if you will, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, hereby known as Gaunt, (almost entirely unknown as Voldemort) steps foot inside his ancestral home and bites back a curse at the state of it.

Though, he’s never been a man to shy away from getting his hands dirty and so, rolls the sleeves of his shirt over the thick of his forearms and flicks a hand at the white sheets covering the windows.

Sunlight pours in, fresh air chasing the dust from the gold rays pouring in as the windows slide open with a flick of his wrist.

With the deadline of the weekend’s festivities approaching, Tom Riddle gets to work.

By the time he’s nearly finished, the house is spotless, wiped clean of all traces of wear and previous occupants, (whether long-gone, equally dilapidated family or whatever creatures had snuck through the old wards still in place) Tom circles the edge of his property with a knife’s sharp edge slicing into his palm, a steady stream of blood that soaks into old wards and binds them to his magic; a steady stream of iron, Latin and _will_ to line the property.

With the last of it, and the most important part of his tasks done, Tom sets his eyes on the barren but clean rooms and decides that perhaps some assistance will be required.

At the Floo, with a palmful of dusty powder, he calls for reinforcements.

* * *

If one could be so bold as to lay claim to the best parties north of London than Harrie thinks she would be as bold to say Ottery Saint Catchpole could put the grandest affairs to shame.

(For whatever silly reason they choose to celebrate, even if the cause of joy is something as daft as a man or two (of a certain reputation and depth of pocket) having arrived in their small town.)

For, in the moment, as the unseasonably warm spring has made the hall a tepid mass of revelry and dancing, Harrie finds herself rather unconcerned with the reason for the party and more concerned with finding a drink, a new dance partner, and perhaps a quiet place to shuck her stockings.

She finds the drink easily enough, in the hand of Ron, who is already liquor loose and hiding behind the pillar near the end of the hall, away from the eyes of his one-time, _alright three-time,_ girlfriend Lavender Brown.

“Can’t hide here forever, Ronnie, I think she’s setting up a grid,” Harrie smirks, stealing his glass of punch and moving on, ignoring his indignant squawk at the loss of his liquid companion.

She smiles into the cup, sipping the sweet drink and moving out of the hall towards the back property.

The moonlight spills over the field, the wild gardens that grow in the back of Ottery’s communal hall; a pearlized glow that seems to quiet the rhythm of the piano and the gentle wail of strings of music coming from inside.

The door shuts behind her and Harrie pulls in a breath, filling her lungs with green air, a damp warmth of grass and earth and flowers.

It’s a welcome moment of reprieve, and she downs the rest of the drink, setting the glass on the wood of the windowsill and then toeing off her small-heeled shoes.

In the quiet, Harrie leans against the side of the porch railing, out of sight of the windows and hikes up her skirts, reaching beneath the cotton and muslin to get at the clasp of her garter belt and shoving at the thin of her stocking, pushing them down her thigh and towards her ankle.

She’s less careful and co-ordinated than she should be, tinted with alcohol and hazy with joy, she stumbles a little, laughing to herself in the dark as she rebalances and points her toes to pluck off the stocking.

There’s a creak in the wood and Harrie startles, catching sight of a shadow shaped like a man in the pastel light of the moon.

“Don’t stop on my account,” his voice comes and Harrie can only barely make him out, the overhang of the balcony above leaving him mostly in darkness. 

“It’s rather rude to watch people you know,” Harrie scowls, letting her skirts fall, holding one stocking rather lamely, barefoot and flushed, (only a bit of it from embarrassment.) “And rather perverse, to hide in the dark while doing it.”

There’s a huff of a sound, like a low laugh and the shadow man steps forward, a bit nearer to the pillar Harrie leans against.

He’s tall and dark-haired, his hair brushed back over his forehead, parted neatly to one side, wearing a dark waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled over his forearms.

Harrie notices the jacket, now that she’s looking, not far from her at all, hung over the railing running the length of the porch.

He’s damnably attractive, the type of gentleman described in the books Ginny is so fond of. Tall and roguish, a lilt to his mouth belying the coolness of his face.

“Do all country girls remove their stockings so early in the night?”

Harrie’s hand tightens on her stocking, “And if we did?”

“Then I should dare say I am surprised Ottery Saint Catchpole is not a well-worn stop for lonely men.”

Harrie’s mouth opens, shuts and then opens again. “The manner of dress does not indicate the manner in which we receive—”

“Manner of undress, rather.”

And then she sees his lips twitch more, a crinkle in the corner of one eye, a teasing thing wrinkled by humour.

“If you’re looking for a certain manner of easy company, Ottery Saint Catchpole has a wide variety of barns.”

And now it’s his turn, his mouth opens, then closes and then he laughs, all deep and resounding in the quiet of the night. His head tilts back, Adam's apple shifting, before he looks back at her, mirth plain on his face.

“I think, girl, that is the first time I’ve ever been told to fuck an animal.”

“I’ve said no such thing,” Harrie lies. “You’ve a foul mind. I meant the _farmhands_ in the barns.”

“Oh, yes,” he says, slowly, his eyes narrowing on her. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant.”

Harrie glares at him, looking him over. “Why are you skulking in the dark, anyway?”

“I am not skulking,” he denies, leaning against the column nearest her. “I am waiting for my companions, who happen to be rather terrible with time management.”

“So you chose to wait in the dark?”

“And watch country girls undress, yes,” he smiles, but it’s a teasing thing.

“A strange thing to get off to, but I who am I to judge how you chose to enjoy yourself.”

“You have a rather crass tongue for a country girl.”

“I think you have not met many country girls, then,” Harrie smiles, looking back towards the party. “Or boys, for that matter.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I doubt that,” she says, her mouth crooked with humour. “City boys like yourself are easily scandalised. I think it’s the lack of fresh air.”

“I am not sure if I am offended or flattered to be called a city boy,” he laughs. “Perhaps both.”

“Easily offended, as well,” she grins. “Too much propriety and too little variety.”

“You think the country holds more variety than London?”

Harrie blinks at him, “Well, yes. You may get more individuals, but each individual is more concerned with their airs than anything else.” She takes a step nearer to him, looks at the stocking in her hand before tossing it onto the porch railing and holding out one hand as if to shake his in greeting, her back straight, a forcibly-polite smile forming. “Good evening, sir, Harrie James, so nice to meet you.”

Surprisingly, like he was ignoring the fact that Harrie might still be teasing him, he takes her hand, his fingers long and more calloused than she expects, watching his mouth tilt. “Thomas Riddle.”

“Lovely spring we’re having, isn’t it, Mister Riddle?”

“One of the warmest on record, I hear, Lady James.”

“Oh, yes, just yesterday I read in the Prophet that it should be a rather hot summer as well.”

“Do you get the Prophet out here?” he asks, his brow shifting. “I thought you’d have the Bumpkin Times or something.”

Harrie’s smile falters, then falls. “You broke role, that’s not how one would speak in London.”

“Oh, is that what we were doing? I just thought you decided to show some manners.”

Harrie scowls. “You’re terribly unclever. And also, you were the one watching me, remember.”

“Forgive me, to not expect a girl to come out the back door and lift her skirts.”

“I was n—” she rushes, and then stops, her mouth pursing. “Perhaps you should consider not lingering in the shadows like a pervert.”

“A pervert _and_ I should fuck animals, however do I manage such depravity?”

“The Lovegood’s farm is just over the rise, perhaps you should start there.”

He laughs, “Any recommendations on which animal I should turn my affections to?”

“I heard goats are quite popular among lonely men.”

His eyes sink over her, just once, but it’s slow and noticeable, even in the dark. “And if I would just rather watch a country girl undress?”

Harrie frowns but feels her cheeks warm under his gaze.

“Country girls are a very welcoming sort,” she says, watching his smirk grow. “And hold no concern for what a proper lady ought to do.”

“A thing I am quickly learning,” he smirks.

She steps back, keeping her eyes on him as she boosts herself up and onto the railing of the porch. With no grace, she hikes the cotton of her skirts to her thighs and unclasps the other garter, pulling off the stocking in one, ungainly pull. With a small jump she lands back on her feet and tilts her chin, a little defiant pose that probably is less effective than she wants it to be, as he is quite a bit taller than her, she realises and feels rather like he’s noticing it, too.

“Consider it your welcome to Ottery Saint Catchpole, sir.” Harrie tilts forward just a little in a small informal sort of bow. “And a goodbye— good evening, Mister Riddle. I should be getting back to the party.”

She’s heading back through the doors, only briefing catching the sound of his _good evening_ following her inside before the door shuts behind her. With a quiet exhale, Harrie heads towards the washroom, locking the door behind her and stealing a proper quiet moment away from the party and the man in the shadows.

In the mirror, she's flushed and feels strangely off-kilter. When she presses her hand to her cheeks, she wills the pink to fade, (and quietly ignores the too-quick thump of her heart in her chest.)

Slipping back out of the washroom, but before she can make it very far, a hand wraps around her arm and pulls her back towards the main room.

Ginny grins at her, her face as flushed as Harrie imagines her own is; hair a wild mess of a fraying updo, the slick shine of sweat stuck to the temples. Not that either of them are alone in their state of disarray, Remus appears beside her, looking only slightly more put together in his blue vest and rolled sleeves, the light brown of his hair looking smoother than it had any right too.

“Harrie, _look—_”

Ginny’s grip turns bruising, turning her attention towards the doorway where three people enter; two men and one woman, who look over the hall with a detached sort of appraisal that looks more like a merchant surveying goods, rather than three people looking to join a party.

And in the middle of the three—

Thomas Riddle.

Harrie scowls, even as Ginny squeezes at her arm, _He’s even more handsome than the papers—_

“Wait,” she says, looking twice at the three newcomers, “Are you saying that’s the Gaunt—”

“Yes, of course!” Ginny nods eagerly. “He’s been in the papers, haven’t you seen them? They’ve been all about Thomas Gaunt coming back from Paris with the Blacks to take up his family home.”

Harrie opens her mouth— and snaps it shut. _What an arsehole, _she thinks, scowling at him, _Thomas Riddle, my arse._

“He really is very handsome,” Ginny sighs. “I bet—”

“He looks rude,” she interrupts. “All of them do. I bet they wouldn’t know a good party if one hit them in the face.”

“Well, that one doesn’t look so bad,” Remus says, his eyes lingering on the man at Riddle’s side. Long dark hair, pulled back into a knot at the back of his head, a grin on his mouth as he looks out over the party. Dressed as finely as Riddle is, though Harrie can’t help but notice that Riddle seems to have pulled his suit jacket back on, where the man at his side is only in his waistcoat.

It makes him look… _arrogant,_ she tells herself. _Arrogant and pretentious. It’s too hot in here for a jacket, you arse._

“And I’d imagine this party _is_ about to hit them in their face, if Brown’s have a word or two about it,” Remus points to the side of the dancefloor, where the Browns, and Lavender, are heading towards Riddle and his companions.

Harrie laughs, ignoring the little flutter in her belly when Riddle’s mouth tilts into a crooked sort of smile, saying something to the man at his side. “Good. It might to them some good,” she pauses, “And so what if they’re handsome. That doesn’t mean much.”

Remus looks at her. “What’s got your stockings in a bunch?”

“Nothing,” Harrie lies. “And I’m not wearing stockings.”

Ginny laughs as Remus rolls his eyes, smiling and shaking his head. “I don’t know why I ever thought otherwise.”

“In my defence,” Harrie offers. “I did start the night with them. I made a very honourable attempt.”

“Oi,” Ron says, coming up between them and nudging Ginny over and ignoring her smack at his arm. “What’re we thinking?”

“That they’re rich-pricks, obviously,” Harrie says, grinning as Ron laughs.

Ginny stares at the four new residents of Ottery Saint Catchpole, looking just a little like she’s trying to decide how and when she can make herself known to them. _Devious_, Harrie thinks, she looks devious.

“Can’t we go introduce ourselves?” she asks, sending Harrie a hopeful look. “It’s what Mum would want, after all.”

“I don’t _want_ to meet them,” Harrie argues. “And unless Molly drags me over there, I’d rather not waste my night on them. I’m not going to marry anyone who owns anything like a _manor,_ let’s be honest.”

Remus eyes her, she sees it, lifting his fizzy drink up to his mouth; Harrie ignores him, knowing he can read her too easily.

“Ron,” she states, turning to face him. “Dance with me?”

“Please no,” he whines. “My feet are already sore, Lavender’s been after me all night.”

Harrie sighs, turning to look at Remus. “Moony?”

He shrugs, glancing at the man at Riddle’s side once more before looking away, something a little resigned in his face until he hands his glass off to Ron. “Oh, why not then. Let’s go.”

* * *

“Well, this certainly isn’t London, is it, Tom?” Bella says, low and curling with a barely-hidden tinge of derision.

He says nothing back, looking over the crowded hall, the music loud, the people all dangerously close to intoxicated, if not already there and wonders, once more, just why his family home had to be here, of all places.

“Oh, come off it, Bella,” Sirius laughs. “Don’t be such a classist. It’s time to join the backcountry party. Isn’t that right, Gaunt?”

He scans the crowds again, looking for the girl from the porch, curious about Harrie James and her stocking-less legs being somewhere in the party. One of said stockings is currently burning a hole in his pocket like some sort of secret joke.

(Or perverse sort of contraband that makes him feel mildly better about being trapped here for the evening.)

“It is, Black, I agree. Make the most of things, Bella, have some…” he pauses, looking at the floating trays of clear glasses holding some sort of fizzy alcohol. He summons one, handing the charmed-cool glass to her. “…of whatever this is supposed to be.”

Her lip curls and Black laughs just as the... _Browns,_ Tom thinks, if he remembers his research right, walk towards them, pushing through the revelry towards them.

And then—

he sees her, a flash of messy hair and gauzy-white dress. She’s leading the man she dances with, even though he’s a fair bit taller than her. They stumble into each other and slip into laughter, ignoring the people around them until they start up again, with the young man leading, this time.

She disappears into the dancefloor again, and Tom looks back to Mister Brown’s hand, held out in introduction, his smile just starting to slip as he waits to be noticed.

Tom smiles, taking hold of the offered hand. “Apologies, Mister Brown, lovely party you’re hosting.”

* * *

“There you two are,” Molly hisses, pulling Remus and Harrie right off the dancefloor in a graceless tug of surprising strength. “I’ve been looking everywhere!”

“What— Mol—” Harrie starts, stumbling after her until they’re off the dancefloor and she’s turning back to face them, her hands already all over Harrie’s dress, smoothing the slipping shoulder, the crooked hem, trying and failing to right the mess of her hair—

“Mol—” Harrie starts again, but Molly tuts and slaps her hand away, righting the line of her dress across her chest before moving onto Remus, who bears the fawning and grooming with much more dignity than Harrie’s flustered huff.

“We’re going to introduce ourselves, smile, be civil and for Grindelwald’s sake, be _polite._”

“I don’t want—” Harrie gets out, but Molly's tugging them again and she swears there’s some sort of spell because the world tilts and refocuses as she pulls them through the crowd again and then—

_He’s there._

Riddle stands in front of her, still looking as put together as he did when she first spotted him across the hall, more untouchable than in the shadows of the balcony. More like a city-boy she thinks, a true London-born Wizard in all their straight-backed, well-dressed, self-important airs.

“Lord Gaunt,” Arthur says from Molly’s side, turning just a little to look at Harrie with a quick, apologetic smile. “My wife, Molly and my children, Ginevra, Ronald, Remus and Harriet.”

Riddle’s eyes meet hers, just for a second, but it catches, snags the moment and she swears his lips twitch. Harrie can practically see his mind working around the name she gave him, the same way he’d told her _Riddle_ and not _Gaunt_.

He says nothing, though, and she’s thankful he hasn’t exposed her for the events on the balcony. (For her little white lies of omission, in not telling her family she’s already acquainted with Lord Gaunt, and he, acquainted with her _thighs_.)

“Forgive me,” he says, tilting his head a little, looking to Harrie once more. “I thought you had seven children.”

“Oh, yes, well, by blood,” Arthur starts, looking at Harrie and Remus. “But we’ve raised Remus and Harrie as our own, so they’re Weasley’s, Lord Gaunt, as good as.”

“I see,” Bellatrix says, looking them over. “What a…interesting family, you have, Mister Weasley. And your eldest just became engaged to a Delacour, didn’t he?”

Arthur nods as Molly speaks up. “Yes, we’re ever so happy for him, the Delacours are a lovely family.”

Ron snorts quietly, Harrie bites back her smile.

“Excuse me. Let me introduce Sirius and Bellatrix Black,” Riddle says, politely. “They’ll be spending some time with me here, as I try to restore Gaunt Manor and my family properties.”

Harrie looks to the pair of Blacks at Riddle’s side; she’s heard that the Blacks were known to marry well, focused on Blood Purity to a degree that nearly all of them came out so similar they could all pass for siblings. It seems Bellatrix and Sirius Black are no different; dark-haired and pale, tall and lithe with a grace that Harrie imagines might be bred right into their spine.

They are quite a good looking pair, though.

“Excuse me,” Sirius Black says as he cuts between the group and holds out his hand to Remus, his blue eyes focused, his grin wide and eager. “Dance with me?”

Remus blinks, looking down at the offered hand, up to Black, back down again— “I don’t think—”

Black’s smile grows. “Say yes or I’ll have to pretend you did and sweep you out there anyway.”

Remus’ lips twitch, Harrie frowns watching the flush climb up his neck and into his cheeks. “Yes, then. I suppose.”

Sirius Black grins and grabs Remus’ hand even before it’s risen an inch from his side, pulling him towards the dancefloor.

“Apologies,” Bellatrix says, dark eyes following the pair, tall enough to see them through the crowd while Harrie loses them quickly. “My cousin can be… excitable.”

“No, no,” Molly laughs, her hand on her chest, her eyes still glued to where they disappeared. “There’s no need to apologise, what a wonderful thing if they’d take a fancy to one another, hm?”

Harrie doesn’t miss Bellatrix’s too-tight, pained smile that looks like it’s cracking at the edges. “Wouldn’t it _just_?”

Riddle looks at Harrie, his grey eyes somehow finding hers in a way that’s too knowing, that’s tinted with—

_Oh, don’t you dare, _she thinks. _Don’t you even—_

“Would you like a dance, Miss…Weasley? Harriet?”

“It’s Harrie,” she scowls. “Just _Harrie_.”

“Of course,” he says, his lips quirking into a smirk. “A dance, then, Harrie?”

Harrie doesn’t miss Bellatrix’s scowl this time, not at all hidden, her curled, thick dark hair swinging as she looks up to Riddle, nearly like she can’t believe she heard him right.

“No, thank you,” Harrie says with a too-sweet smile that doesn’t reach her eyes in the same way the ‘_you arsehole’,_ she leaves off does. To her left, she thinks she hears the sound of someone dying, but she’s too focused on Riddle and the way his smirk falls. “I’m a terrible dancer, really—”

“_Harrie_!” Molly hisses, high and nearly reedy in desperation. Harrie realises the dying sound may have come from Molly. Ginny nudges her, the start of a_ dance with him_—

“—and I think you’d prefer a less insulting partner. Don’t you think?”

His smile takes a beat too long to spread, polite in the same way his eyes hold hers. “Of course, if you think that best.”

“Let’s dance, then, Tom. I wouldn’t mind a spin,” Bella offers, her hand closing around his arm, long dark nails sinking into his jacket. “You haven’t taken me dancing in ages.”

Riddle holds Harrie’s eyes for just a moment longer before his head turns and he’s smiling down at Bellatrix. “Of course, I have been a terrible host lately, haven’t I?”

He turns back to the remaining Weasleys, nodding politely at Arthur. “Mister Weasley, lovely to meet you, but if you’ll excuse me, I can’t refuse a lady’s request.”

_Of course, of course, _Arthur says, fluffing a hand as Riddle leads Bellatrix towards the dancefloor.

Harrie refuses to watch them go, looking down at a thread, fraying off the pale-green ribbon tied around her waist.

“_Harriet James,” _Molly starts in a way that makes Harrie cringe.

“I’m _sorry_, Molly, but he’s— I would have insulted him sooner or later. Can you imagine _me_ dancing with _him_?”

“He’s worth more than this countryside! The life that he could give you—”

Harrie huffs, “I don’t need someone to give me a life I already have, especially not some… city boy with deep pockets.”

“Well, that’s all well and good, dear, but the facts stand that—”

“Mum,” Ginny says, rolling her eyes. “How about we not make a scene at the party and just appreciate that Remus has just been asked to dance by a _Black._”

Molly stops, her smiling spreading quickly. “Oh, Remus! Yes, isn’t that just lovely? Let’s go take a look, dear,” she says, turning to Arthur and leading him to the edge of the dancefloor.

“Thanks, Gin,” Harrie sighs, watching them go.

“You’re as daft as a Puffskein, _Harriet James,_” Ginny huffs, turning to face Harrie. “Lord Gaunt wanted to dance with you and you told him _no? _Are you mad?” She makes a strange sound in her throat, turning on her heel and marching off before Harrie can answer.

“Well,” Ron says rather blandly. “Some party, eh?”

Harrie snorts.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

two

* * *

Harrie wakes the next morning, buried beneath her blankets with the spring sun already stretching into her room like a lethargic cat.

She stretches and yawns, (feeling quite like a cat herself) when her foot finds a warm shin, and she rolls to find Remus, snoring lightly at her side.

“Oi,” she mumbles, smiling into the blankets, nudging his leg with her toes. “Wake up, Lover Boy.”

“G’way,” Remus mutters into the pillow. “Tired.”

“I’d expect so, dancing with Black _all night long_. I’m surprised he just didn’t kidnap you and be done with it.”

“N’like that,” Remus says, rolling onto his back and stretching out, blinking into the sun and squinting. The pale scars on his jaw shift as he yawns, the new one near his collarbone from the last full draws her eyes. “We just danced. And talked. He’s very… funny.”

“Funny?” Harrie asks, pulling a face. “A _Black_?”

Remus sighs, his head turning to face her on the pillow; face lined with pink creases from sleep, eyelids still heavy. “Yes, strange as it sounds. He was…funny and—_kind_. He didn’t ask me about the scars, didn’t even seem to notice them, really.”

Harrie goes quiet at that. Not knowing what to say, she reaches out to touch the rubbed-raw mark on his wrist that never seems to heal; from the chains, keeping him locked up as the thing inside of him slips free as the moon rises.

“Good,” she says softly. “I’m happy for you.”

Remus stays silent; the sun beads into the room, growing brighter. When he looks at her, he says nothing for a moment before he smiles, quick and caught on just a little bit of something sad. Harrie wishes she could ease it off his face, or pull it true, tug the edges like a pretty bow.

“Not that it matters, I’m sure Sirius Black has better things to be doing than courting a werewolf.”

“Don’t say that. He seemed… eager enough to dance with you. Pretty much stole you away before the introductions were done, didn’t he?”

His lips twitch just a little, rolling onto his stomach and pushing his face into the pillow, his groan half-filled with a laugh. “It was so…_strange._”

Harrie laughs, rolling out of bed and stretching, shivering at the touch of the early morning cold on her bare legs; thankful she wore socks to bed to ward off the chill in the old, hardwood floors.

Knowing that Arthur is probably already in the field, and they’re late feeding the animals after last night’s festivities, Harrie heads towards her dresser.

“And what about you, hm? Are you going to explain what all that was, with Lord Gaunt?” Remus says after a yawn.

“No idea what you’re on about, Moony,” Harrie says, piling clothes in her arm and turning towards the bathroom. “Lord Gaunt seems like a very fine gentleman.”

“You’re a liar, Harrie James, and a terrible one at that,” Remus calls, voice carrying through the bathroom door.

Harrie laughs.

“Morning, George,” Harrie calls, leading the baskets of root vegetables and eggs along behind her, floating as she waves her wand towards the counter, where George leans, flipping through a rather heavy-looking book.

“Morning, Harrie,” he says, looking up at the packages and then back down to his book. “Heard you lot met our illustrious Mister Gaunt last night. Heard you were a rude little thing, as ever.”

Harrie rolls her eyes, using her wand to unbind the packages, starting to sort the vegetables into the different display baskets for sale. “I simply refused a dance with the man, I’m sure he’s not so hard up that he’d be offended by one little country-girl telling him no to a _dance_. Besides, he danced with Lady Black. So… it all worked out in the end, you see.”

George looks at her, still leaning on the counter, his eyes narrowed. “Yes, but that doesn’t explain why you refused him.”

Harrie looks away and shrugs. “I didn’t like his face.”

“I’ve heard he has a lovely face. _Swoon-worthy_ in fact, if Ginny is at all to be trusted.”

“Ginny liked Michael _Corner_ last month, she can’t be trusted on anything of the sort.”

George laughs, straightening up from the counter. “That’s true, you make a very valid point.”

“It is, and thank you. Where’s Fred?”

“In the back, we’re trying to perfect the new Whiz Bangs for the festival.”

“Oh, yes, Viridas is this weekend, isn’t it?”

“Mmhm,” he nods, leaning forward, his hands spread on the old wood countertop. “And we hope to turn a pretty galleon or two, selling the Whiz Bangs and the Fire-Breathers.”

“Well, if you need any help, let me know?”

_‘Course, _George says with a wave as Harrie heads back out the doors, ready to head back to the Burrow.

She mounts Aki, patting his shank as she settles, listening to the low _whuff _of his breath as he shakes his head until Harrie strokes his mane and it settles into a rumbling purr beneath her.

“Good boy,” she whispers, turning him in the narrow, cobblestone street. Most, though used to Harrie’s Qilin, are quick to give her a wider berth, still uncomfortable around the foreign, horse-like, creature.

His ox-hooves click on the stones and Harrie looks over Ottery Saint Catchpole’s main street and waves at Magistrate Diggory’s wards, who cross the street eagerly, their blonde heads shining in the sunlight.

“Hullo, boys,” Harrie laughs, slipping off Aki and standing in front of the dragon-like face of her [Qilin](https://www.google.ca/search?q=qilin+mythology&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwiHvNGX_fHlAhUV0qwKHYlYAVoQ2-cCegQIABAB&oq=qillin+myth&gs_l=mobile-gws-wiz-img.1.0.0i13l3j0i8i13i30l2.59396.59701..60615...0.0..0.106.204.1j1......0....1.xtHJ8vd-9rs&ei=Kp_RXYf_NpWkswWJsYXQBQ&bih=512&biw=360&client=ms-opera-mobile&prmd=ivn), burying her hands in its main as the boys come up to pet him.

“Careful now,” she says, watching the eager, but gentled stroke of their hands on the smooth, short fur of Aki’s shank. Aki purrs, his tail’s thick plume of hair sways behind them, reaching out to brush against the boys and make them giggle.

Colin and Dennis Creevey are both a fair few years younger than Harrie, and she remembers when it was announced that the Diggory’s would be getting a ward; it was big news in their small town. Even more so when they found out they’d be getting _two_ wards_._

Warding is always an honour; being given the responsibility and trust to raise magical children abandoned by their muggle families, even with the chances of it going wrong… well, no one refused Grindelwald’s gift of a ward-child.

Harrie watches them, asking them how their lessons are going, Dennis shows her his brand new ward-wand, a smaller, training wand given to wards at ten before a full-fledged one at sixteen.

Harrie knows that wards aren’t always treated as equally as she thinks they should be, and she does her best to always treat the Creevey brothers as if they were an honorary Weasley, just like herself. Knowing how easily she could have been one of them, how easily her life could have been just like theirs… can’t help but wonder, even now, what it was like for her mother—

But no, Harrie pushes the thought away; it does no good, she tells herself, no good at all, thinking about things that cannot be changed. No good spending her thoughts on people that have been dead for nineteen years.

“D’you think we could visit Hagrid’s with you, the next time you go, Harrie?” Colin asks, looking up at her, his hand pulling along Aki’s tail until the bushy end of it fluffs under his nose and makes him sneeze and laugh.

“Sure,” she grins, laughing with Dennis as Aki’s tail swings away. “But we’ll have to ask Lord Diggory. Should I owl him for you?”

Colin nods, eagerly, “I really want to see the Bowtruckles again.”

“We’ve been learning a lot about magical creatures lately,” Dennis says, scratching at Aki’s side. “I think he’d be okay with it. Maybe Cedric can bring us. He’s usually more willing to let us go places when we have him around.”

Harrie nods, trying not to say that’s it more than silly that they need a wizard with them to do something as harmless as visit Hagrid’s farm, just at the edge of Ottery Saint Catchpoles’ ward-lines. But it’s not her place to doubt the reasons for Grindelwald’s laws; they all know what can happen sometimes, to Muggleborns.

The Creevy brothers take off, leaving Harrie staring after them, wondering again what it might’ve been like, had the Weasley’s not taken her in after her mother…

_Don’t think about it_, _Harrie James_, she tells herself. _There’s no changing it._

The voice reaches her first, a low-rolling thing that enters her ears and settles into her like her body is keyed to it. It…unsettles her, how easily she recognises it, how it spikes her pulse like cheap Firewhiskey. 

Riddle— _Gaunt,_ she tells herself, Lord Gaunt walks along the street in front of her, Bellatrix Black at his side, dressed in a bright, spring dress, her hair coiled and perfectly done up. She looks lovely, Harrie thinks, even if her nose is just a little too high, her top lip curled ever so slightly upwards.

Harrie sinks a little more behind Aki, watching them, thankful that the wide brim of her hat, hides her face and that her hair, messy and so easily recognisable, is tucked up underneath it. Thankful, quite truthfully, for the fact she looks more like a boy than the girl they met the night before.

There’s another man, walking just behind them, tall and thin with lank black hair and a crooked, long nose. He lingers outside of a shop as Riddle and Bellatrix step inside, the bell jingling through the quiet street.

Harrie takes it as her cue to leave, glancing again at the man who looks out over the street, taking in the shops and the people with a cold sort of indifference until… his eyes land on hers and there’s a shift in his face, a tensing of his body—

“Lily—,” he says in a quiet rush. The name snares between them and Harrie stops, caught in the net of it, the dead woman’s name catching in her chest.

Harrie finds her voice stuck somewhere south of her lungs, staring up at the man as he closes the distance between them, coming to a stop right in front of her, his jaw tense, his eyes searching, too wide, too—

_Eager._

And she watches the recognition, the _hope_ die slowly in his dark eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks harshly, nearly spitting, his hand reaching out—

Aki growls, the rumbling sound pitching into a snarl, snapping out at the man’s hand. Harrie reigns him in, holding tightly to his mane, hushing: _I’m fine, it’s fine, it’s okay…_

“_Who_ _are you?_” the man asks again, his voice harsh and hard, but keeping his hands curled into fists at his side, half a step back from Harrie; his eyes darting between her and her Qilin.

“Harrie James,” she says and leaves the _Potter_ off the end the same way she has since Arthur and Molly sat her down when she was fourteen to tell her the whole truth about her family and why she must always, always be careful of her last name.

Her name doesn’t do what she thought it would, instead of acceptance, the man’s eyes widen more, his face going white. “You’re supposed to be _dead_.”

Harrie grips onto Aki’s mane, her mouth opening, ready to deny it, to argue with the man— that he’s confused, _Confounded_, maybe, touched in the head, even, but—

“How do you know that name?” Harrie asks, her voice nearly a whisper, like saying it too loud might just shatter the moment. She’s never met anyone, _anyone_ who knew her mother’s name. Who knew _her._

The man glares at her, his mouth opening, stepping forward again when a bell chimes behind him. The door of the shop opens and his mouth snaps shut, his jaw tensing. He doesn’t look away from her, but something shifts over his face as he takes one half-step closer, his voice harsh and low.

“Leave. Now.”

Harrie frowns, eyes darting to Riddle and Black emerging from the shop; she swallows, wants to demand an answer, wants to know who he is, at the very least, but—

“_Leave_—” the man hisses just as Lady Black looks down the street and—

Harrie tilts her head down, but Bellatrix’s voice is clear and high.

“Snape, what on Grindelwald’s good Earth are you doing near that beast?”

Harrie looks up on instinct, her mouth opening to tell Black that Aki is not a _beast_ at all, but—

“Leave,” the man, _Snape,_ she thinks, hisses again. “_Now_.”

Something twists in her stomach and Harrie turns, hauling herself up and onto Aki’s back, but it’s not quick enough, she looks up, just once more and Riddle’s eyes land on hers.

Gripping Aki’s mane, her tongue poised on a command, Bellatrix closes the distance between them on the street, stepping up beside Snape, who, somehow, seems to change almost immediately, straight-backed, apathetic, his eyes cold and dark and empty.

“A curiosity, Bellatrix, no more,” he says, starting to turn away, but her hand lands on his arm, holding him there.

“Boy, what kind of beast is he?”

Harrie bites her cheek, Aki huffs beneath her, his hooves clopping on the uneven stone. Too many people too close, feeling Harrie’s tension, even on his back. She rubs his side, careful to keep her head low, seeing the shiny, black shoes of Riddle step up next to Bellatrix. She stares at them, telling herself to not look up, _don’t you dare look up, Harrie James._

There’s something in her itching like a new pair of stockings, to look up, to meet Riddle’s eyes, but Snape’s words ring in her ears, the pale of his face… _leave. Now—_

“A Qilin, my Lady,” she forces out, her heart pounding.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she sniffs. “Wherever did you find _it?_”

“He was a gift, I’ve had him for many years.”

“What a strange creature,” Bellatrix says, and then laughs. “Seems like something you’d chop up for potion ingredients, doesn’t it, Snape?”

Harrie tenses, gritting her teeth, head darting up and meeting the narrow, cold-eyed smile on Bellatrix’s face as she looks the Qilin over. Aki chuffs, his hoof stomping again. Harrie doesn’t bother comforting him, he’s right to feel unsettled. “He’s smarter than most humans, I know, my _Lady_.”

Beside her, Snape’s mouth tightens and from the corner of her eye, she feels Riddle’s eyes on her_._

Bellatrix laughs, clear and bright and sharp like a blade. “Isn’t this the Weasley girl you asked to dance last night, Tom?” she laughs again, her hand slips through Tom’s arm, the pale length of her fingers curling around his bicep. “Gods, I thought her a stable-boy.”

She doesn’t bother arguing the assumption, passing as a boy is often her intention, so she smiles instead, tight and forcibly polite. She thinks Molly would be proud. “Farm work is often better down in trousers than skirts, Lady Black.”

Bellatrix grins. “Farm work, yes, of course, it would be. Good thing it fits you so well, isn’t it, Miss Weasley?”

Harrie smiles, knowing that calling her a boy is meant as an insult, but it bothers her only in that it was intended to harm and none other. Her preferences are her own and Lady Black will not and can not shame her any more than Molly can guilt her into a skirt when Harrie does not want to wear one.

“It’s _James_, isn’t it?” Riddle says. “I’m not entirely sure which one, you seem to have many… sides.”

Bellatrix glances at Riddle at the same time Harrie does. Before she can stop herself. Before she can tell herself _not to._ She finds him already watching her, curiosity plain on his face; his eyes are dark, but she would swear on Grindelwald himself that there’s a tinge of red in his eyes, like the darkest sort of cherry wood picking up firelight.

Harrie looks away first, her eyes darting to Snape, his jaw tight and _something_ else barely hidden behind the weight of his eyes.

“Just Harrie,” she says, looking away. “Harrie is more than fine.”

“Shall we head to the next shop, Tom? I would like to get back to the manor before lunch, I do not think I’ll chance the… offerings of any of the restaurants here. We wouldn’t want to bother the bo— _girl, _while she’s working, would we?”

“I think I will excuse myself from any further explorations today, I believe I’ve exhausted all that Saint Catchpole has to offer,” Snape drawls. “Lord Gaunt, Lady Bellatrix, I’ll see that lunch is prepared for when you arrive back to the manor.”

With a _pop_ and a flicker of magic, Snape vanishes.

Refusing to look at Riddle again, Harrie curls her hands into Aki’s mane a little more; he chuffs, swaying back a pace or two, putting space between Harrie and the two, out of place Purebloods, standing on the small, cobblestone path of Ottery Saint Catchpole’s main street.

“Have a good day, Lady Black… Lord _Gaunt_,” she says, looking at the pitch-black line of Riddle’s hair, pushed back off his forehead in something Harrie is sure Ginny would call roguishly-perfect. “Enjoy the town as best as you’re able. We do our best to make _everyone_ feel welcome, no matter the company they keep.”

She doesn’t give them a chance to respond as Aki starts to move beneath her, trotting off down the street, but she hears the trailing sound of Bellatrix’s lilting voice, _imagine if you had danced with her—_

Harrie’s thoughts tumble… the sallow-faced man, the harsh bite of his _leave_, her mother’s name—_ you’re supposed to be dead—_

Riddle, in the dark of the porch, his laugh, echoing.

Harrie arrives back at the Burrow unsettled, troubled over thoughts of Snape, her parents, Riddle and that resounding pulse of _leave, now._

There are no answers to be found in her head, so instead, Harrie takes off to the skies, clearing the tops of the trees in an effort to clear the spinning thoughts in her mind.

The skies offer nothing more than fresh air and an unobstructed view of the countryside and as she sways back down, two people that turn slowly from little shapes in the shadows of the tree line that lines the pond, into Remus and—

Sirius Black.

She doesn’t want to linger, because if there’s any lesson to be learned in being raised alongside eight siblings, is that privacy is a commodity that is very rare indeed. And Harrie is not about to deny Remus his hard-found moment of it.

Hopping off her broom near the back door, Harrie slips into her home and finds Ginny and Molly at the back windows, peering out across the yard towards the pond.

A hard-found commodity, indeed.

“Anything terribly vulgar going on out there?” she asks and laughs when they both jump, turning to face her. “Remus is such a _wicked_ boy, isn’t he? No morals at all, that one.”

Ginny rolls her eyes as Molly huffs. “That’s enough out of you,” she snips, her cheeks a blotchy red, (with excitement and embarrassment, Harrie can imagine.) “It could have been you out there with Lord Gaunt had you been even the slightest bit more polite.”

“What, necking by the pond?” she says lightly, looking out the window. Bursting out into laughter again when Molly and Ginny twist quickly back towards it, but finding only the same thing Harrie saw from the skies, Remus and Black, talking quietly, heads bent close together in the shade of the trees.

“Oh, you terrible thing,” Molly chides, whapping Harrie with the tea towel being twisted in her hands. “No respect at all for my nerves.”

Harrie jolts and darts away from the tickle of a well-pointed pinching charm that hits her thigh, laughing. “I’m sorry, Mol, but do you really think Remus would be out necking by the pond?”

Molly’s mouth twists. “No, of course not. But Lord Black is very charming, isn’t he? And he’s taken quite the fancy to Remus, you know_. Quite taken._”

“They’ve been out there for _hours_,” Ginny sighs, leaning against the window sill and dropping her head onto her folded arms and mumbling: “I wish I could neck by the pond.”

Molly’s tea towel snaps out again, Harrie grins at Ginny’s squawk. “That’s enough from you, you need to take your head out of those silly romance books and come help me with dinner. I imagine Lord Black might be inclined to stay if we offer.”

“Shouldn’t we ask Remus if he even _wants_ him here, first?” Harrie asks, frowning and settling into a chair at the table. “I mean, maybe he’s been trying to get away from Black, if they’ve really been out there _hours._”

“Doesn’t look like he’s been trying to get away to me,” Ginny huffs, pushing away from the window and slumping next to her mother. “And they’re not _silly_ romance books, they’re educational.”

“For what?” Harrie teases, “How to be wooed by terribly brooding Lords who don’t know how to smile? Or how to be a swooning maid in the arms of one of Grindelwald’s Aurors?”

Ginny huffs, her eyes narrowing as she swipes a strand of hair out of her face, but her lips quirk up as she speaks. “No, it’s mostly necking by ponds, of course.”

Harrie laughs, leaning back in her chair as Molly tuts. “You two, honestly. Insulting Lord Gaunt and—”

“I didn’t _insult_ him,” Harrie groans, tilting her head back. “He came with Lady Black, they _danced_, I’m sure he was perfectly content to be refused by me.”

“Gaunt offered you a dance?” a voice says from the doorway, and Harrie’s chair legs thump onto the wood floor as all three of them startle.

At the door, Remus stands next to Sirius Black, who has a kneazle-got-the-puffskein grin on his face, leaning against the doorway, obviously having heard some of their conversations.

Remus smiles at her when their eyes meet, Harrie can’t help but smile back.

“He did,” she says, gaze moving to Black. “Out of politeness at you stealing away Remus so quickly, I’m sure.”

Black’s smile grows if possible, his eyebrows lifting. “Not unless it benefitted him, I assure you. Tom does nothing unless it pleases him to do so. Least of all dance with someone because he thought he _ought to._”

Harrie feels her smile catch at the edges, because the truth of it is, of course, that it wasn’t manners so much as teasing her, or…

She thinks about his gaze on the porch, _and if I wanted to watch a country girl undress?_

Or, just him thinking country girls really are that _easy._

“_See_,” Molly says brightly. “Lord Gaunt was trying to dance with you, dear. I absolutely forbid you from ignoring him at Viridas. If he even offers again, after being refused so _quickly_.”

“I’m sure you lot have some grand party for Viridas, this weekend, eh?” Black asks, his smile crooked, looking excited at the prospect. “That last one was easily the best party I’ve been to in years. You’ll show me how it’s done here, won’t you, Remus?”

“Of course,” Remus says quickly, his eyes darting to Harries as his smile flickers and the room goes quiet for a just a moment, just the briefest awkward pause where everyone but Lord Black knows that Remus _can’t— _can’t possibly be at Black’s side for Viridas. Or at all this weekend.

Molly comes to the rescue, her voice calm and bright in the small kitchen. “Lord Black, could we entice you to stay for dinner?”

“I should dissuade him, shouldn’t I?” Remus says, staring at the little bluebell flame hovering between them. 

“Of course not!” Ginny says quickly, her face twisting in something very close to outrage. “Of course not Moony! Don’t you _dare_.”

From the end of the bed, Harrie’s head shifts as Ron breathes, her head pillowed on his stomach and her feet in Ginny’s lap as they lounge in Remus’ bed. The youngest Weasley children (adopted or born) have been making this a safe spot since long before Bill left the house.

“I say just have fun, mate,” Ron yawns, his stomach shifting Harrie’s head higher. “Who knows how long Black is even going to stay here, right? Might as well just… enjoy yourself for a bit.”

Remus’ eyes meet Harrie’s through the low-thrumming glow of the bluebell flame. “Maybe—” she starts, seeing the want, the need for and excuse to see Black again on Remus’ face. “Maybe we could say you’re sick. A spring flu, it’s just one weekend, isn’t it? Ron’s right. You should be able to have fun for once. No one knows how long they’ll be staying. He might not be here for the next.”

Remus looks away, the glow from the flame sending shadows over the already pale angles of his face, the fatigue etched on his eyelids, the closer the moon comes to rising round and fat and full and dragging out the other part of him.

“Do I?” he mumbles. “Even if it’s all going to be based on lies?”

“Yes,” Harrie decides, pushing away her hesitation, the truth of it, so clearly written on Remus’ face. “Yes, you do deserve it, Moony.”

He looks at her, across the bed and Harrie does her best to say _you do, you do deserve this, _with nothing more than her eyes, but she isn’t entirely sure if he believes her at all.

* * *

The week slides by, the days growing longer and brighter as the spring solstice draws nearer.

Lord Black makes himself at home at the Burrow, calling on Remus every morning just after breakfast and spending (more than what one could consider appropriate) hours with him. Remus grows listless and pale as the days draw closer. They’ve never been able to afford Wolfsbane, the potion is too regulated, any attempt to purchase it would surely ruin the carefully controlled truth of Remus’… _truths_.

Instead, Remus relies on a tea brewed with a mix of aconite and valerian, ground into a paste along with leaves of dittany, drunk each morning in a bitter tea; it leaves him lethargic and withdrawn, a pale shadow of the young man Harrie knows him to be. (Like the moon steals him. Steals him in little pieces each day of the month until it can climb full in the sky and leave Remus, chained and bound and less a man than a beast stuck in its wake.)

Grinding steadily, the mortar tucked under her arm and against her stomach, Harrie puffs a breath, shifting a loose strand of hair out of her face as she glances at Remus and Sirius out the window of the garden shed again, distracted by the reality of Remus’ truths coming so clearly into focus now, a reality she’s sure, he must have long been aware of.

And that she, apparently, might never have really understood just how resigned he must be to the idea of being unwanted.

His face in the bluebell flames has lingered in her mind for days; her brother, as good as, so keenly aware of all the ways he will never be accepted. Loved. _Known._

There’s a need in her to do _something,_ she just isn’t entirely sure what that _something_ is. It makes her itchy and unsettled, angry and disappointed all at once and—

“Whatever you’re grinding is a most surely a liquid by now.”

Harrie startles, the pestle and mortar falling from hands—

And stops, midair, floating near her knees, caught in a flick of Riddle’s wand, before rising, floating over to the worktable and being carefully set down, all at the direction of his magic.

He’s leaning against the doorway, an easy pose that scratches at her in some impolite way.

“Careful,” he says, but his eyes are dark and there’s a tilt to his mouth that sparks that scratch in her stomach into, _anger_, she reasons, _most definitely some mild outrage settling into anger._

“What are _you_ doing here?” she snaps, stepping forward and urging him out of the door of the workshop, all too aware of the flowers and herbs cut and lying on the table.

Aconite is a controlled substance, after all.

The door slams shut behind her, a burst of uncontrolled magic that sparks in the air, shocks at her fingertips—

That are pressing into the hard warmth of Riddle’s chest, shoving him further into the sprawling plant and vegetable gardens out the back of the Burrow.

She tears her hand away, biting her cheek at the crooked smile still on his face when she glances up at him_. He’s too tall_, she thinks, _it shouldn’t be allowed. It’s nearly rude, really._

“Maybe it’s different in the city, but you shouldn’t just _invite yourself_ into people’s homes—”

“Mrs Weasley was ever so kind to let me in, actually. Offered a tour, even. She seemed quite certain you’d _personally_ see me well-acquainted with, what did she call it_… the_ _Burrow?_”

“Yes,” Harrie grinds out between her teeth, stepping around him and heading back towards the Burrow, ready to show him the front door and then into whatever carriage or… apparition point, he got here in. “Weasley land has been known as the Burrow for as long as they’ve held the land.”

“An old family, yes, a shame they don’t own it any longer, however.”

Harrie stops, pulling in a breath and turning to face Riddle head-on. “Is there a reason you’re here today, _Lord Gaunt_, or is it purely to fill the role of snobbish city-boy and condescending lord.”

If possible, his smirk grows more crooked. Harrie thinks she’d be quite pleased to hex it off his face, or, failing a good hex, a solid punch would do the trick.

“Ah, there it is,” he says slowly, looking more pleased than she thinks he has any reason to. “I wonder how I manage to be a Lord and a city-boy all at once, however.”

“A feat for the times, I’m sure,” she snipes. “Now _why_ are you here?”

“To see how my good friend fairs, of course,” he says, too sweetly, his mouth still in that infuriating tilt. “He’s spent a great deal of time here, you must be aware, there are certain… proprieties that one should be aware of in the course of…_courting_, especially when one is a lord and the other is—”

“What? Poor? _Lesser?_” Harries grits her teeth, wondering if she could get her wand from its place on her thigh before Riddle could raise his again. He deserves a good hex, she thinks.

Riddle’s eyebrows lift, and he tilts his head. “Of less _means_.”

Harrie bites her cheek, her eyes darting to Remus and Sirius, lingering on the shores of the pond, stretched out on the grassy bank.

“Of lesser means,” she says slowly. “Yes, we are that, aren’t we? Farmers and labourers, well beneath Lords and Ladies and Pureblood Houses untarnished from the wars.”

Riddle says nothing, his head inching up, ever so slightly.

“Why are you _here_, Lord Gaunt?”

Another too long moment that stretches by, filled with the garden air, the warm sun heating the dark soil beneath them.

“Curiosity,” he says at length, and shifts his stance; the broad line of his shoulders stretch the dark jacket he has on as he tucks his hands into his trouser pockets.

Harrie isn’t entirely sure he means his curiosity is for how Lord Black fairs in his wooing, or—

There’s a laugh, caught on the breeze and swaying over them; she’s sure it’s Remus’, but Riddle’s eyes are dark, that faint hint of red catching only when the sun breaks through the rolling white clouds above them.

They’re standing much too close, she thinks and then remembers the man from the street, Snape, his words and his warnings and hope, dying so slowly on his face. Like he’d seen an apparition, a phantom woman in the shadows of a girl, only for a moment and then nothing more.

“Remus is a good person,” she says, tearing her eyes away and looking to the bank of the lake; wondering why she’s lingering, why she isn’t heeding Snape’s hushed and hurried _leave._ There must be a reason, a _good reason_, she thinks, to warn a stranger so… strangely. “Let them be.”

Riddle doesn’t look away from her, she can feel his eyes on her face. “I had no intentions otherwise. Black is his own man, he can make his own mistakes.”

_Mistakes,_ she mumbles, rolling the word and the meaning over her tongue. “Of course. What else can come from it?”

“Entertainment, I suppose,” he says, his lips quirking.

In the moment, her mind spins an image of Riddle’s smile in the half-dark the night before, the way he’d laughed—

_Entertained_ by her.

_And if I want to watch a country girl undress?_

“Yes,” Harrie laughs, feeling so suddenly _stupid_ for thinking about his man at all. “We of lesser means always strive to provide _entertainment_ to those above us.”

Riddle’s brows twitch down, the quirk in his lips fading. “You—”

“Gaunt, is that you?” Sirius’ voice echoes across the field and Riddle’s head turns as Harrie glares at his profile.

_Mistakes_, she thinks, _a mistake is exactly what this is._

Harrie catches Remus’ curious look as the pair make their way closer, and she forces a smile, ignoring Riddle when he looks back at her.

“What are you doing here, then?” Sirius asks, and she’s certain that no one misses the way his hand is still curled around Remus’.

“Your parents arrived a short time ago,” he says, standing straighter and turning away from Harrie, though he glances at her only once more. “I thought it… best I collect you myself.”

_Rather than tell them where you are,_ hangs unsaid.

“Oh,” Sirius says after a moment, his hand slipping from Remus’. “I suppose that makes sense.”

In the quiet of the front yard, Harrie sits, propped upon the wood fence that lines the edges and the ends of the wards of Weasley property.

The crack of apparition still lingers, Remus settles beside her, leaning against the old wood. He smells vaguely like some expensive cologne, and she wonders if there actually was any necking going on.

“What was that all about, with Lord Gaunt?”

“Nothing,” she says and ignores Remus’ searching gaze for a beat too long before huffing, staring hard at the point Riddle stood, just before he apparated away. “That man thinks he’s so _charming—_”

“Most people think he _is_ charming.”

“Well, he’s not. He said you and Sirius are a _mistake—_”

Remus smiles, tilted and tugging into a strange mix of entertained and sad. “Is that not the truth, though? What future do I have with a Black, Harrie? Truthfully now,” he sighs, pushing off the fence. “What do you see happening between someone like me, a _werewolf_ and the heir to the House of Black?”

Harrie says nothing, watching as Remus jams his hands into his trouser pockets, his thin shoulders shrugging like he can shrug off his own feelings. “Do you know what their House motto is?”

She shakes her head.

_“Tojours pur.”_

He waits a beat, his smile quick, fragile and untrue. “It means,” he says slowly. “_Always_ _pure_.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Posting old shit so it doesn't collect dust on my hard drive.


End file.
